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About Me

is an unapologetic, bleeding-heart liberal who writes about everything from politics to private parts. A TV-writer in a former life, her credits include "Big Spender" for Animal Planet,and "A Child Too Many," "Cradle of Conspiracy" & "Deceived By Trust," for Lifetime

Friday, March 23, 2012

The black, starless sky merges with the still body of water, creating the illusion of one. Lit only by a single moonbeam, the bare arm of a woman reaches from beneath the water’s dark surface, creating a gentle circle of ripples. In her hand, an infant held high and safe from that which its mother could not survive.

When I think of my mother, this is the image that comes to mind. A struggling alcoholic for much of her life, she traded that addiction for cancer and died when she was only 54. I was grown by then. At 22, I had been on my own for three years. My mother had poured all that was good, wise and strong from her into me so that I would thrive, and when she was sure I was on solid ground, she left.

One of her greatest gifts to me was the belief that there was nothing I couldn’t be or do. “There’s always a way,” she would often tell me. By this she meant that whatever the challenge, there was always a way to overcome it. I didn’t have to invent the way. It already existed. I had only to believe it was so, and believe I did and do to this day. Given her own pain, I don’t know where this faith and optimism came from, but she was determined that I would succeed where she had not.

Today is my mother’s birthday. She would have been 94. Thank you, Mom. You done good.

The black, starless sky merges with the still body of water, creating the illusion of one. Lit only by a single moonbeam, the bare arm of a woman reaches from beneath the water’s dark surface, creating a gentle circle of ripples. In her hand, an infant held high and safe from that which its mother could not survive.

When I think of my mother, this is the image that comes to mind. A struggling alcoholic for much of her life, she traded that addiction for cancer and died when she was only 54. I was grown by then. At 22, I had been on my own for three years. My mother had poured all that was good, wise and strong from her into me so that I would thrive, and when she was sure I was on solid ground, she left.

One of her greatest gifts to me was the belief that there was nothing I couldn’t be or do. “There’s always a way,” she would often tell me. By this she meant that whatever the challenge, there was always a way to overcome it. I didn’t have to invent the way. It already existed. I had only to believe it was so, and believe I did and do to this day. Given her own pain, I don’t know where this faith and optimism came from, but she was determined that I would succeed where she had not.

Today is my mother’s birthday. She would have been 94. Thank you, Mom. You done good.